Tag Archives: Women

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I Know Better

The second I saw him, I knew this night was a waste of a brand new dress from Urban.

I really did know better. I really had been here before. This, actually was precisely the reason I stopped going on online dates. It was why I deleted all of those accounts. I had met too many people who seemed like Mr. Everything on paper, er, on screen, only to spend five minutes before searching for the closest exit. But after a few months of duds met in real life, not the digital romantic playground, I decided to give it another go, let myself give clicking yet another chance to help me find someone I just might click with.

But again, I knew better. I knew how this likely would play out. And I was right.

We had spent the last few days texting up a storm. He seemed interesting enough– educated, tall, from the Midwest, new to the city, likes running and has a dog. He remembered to follow up and was somewhat funny, at least iPhone to iPhone. He suggested margaritas on Friday night near our respective apartments, and I didn’t need much convincing. It was raining when I arrived, appropriately five minutes late, and I saw him standing with an umbrella.

He wasn’t six foot. My shoulders were wider than his. He couldn’t make eye contact and didn’t hold the door open for me. He isn’t actually living in the city, but interning. He couldn’t hold a conversation longer than I could exhale out of nothing more than utter frustration. He didn’t ask about what I did or what I like to do, or anything at all, frankly. He kept talking about how he likes to get drunk, whipped through his drink in a hot second, and I quickly came up with an excuse to leave. As I walked back to the restroom, I stopped the waitress to ask for our check and something in my step, or maybe my tightly-sealed pursed lips, made her sense something wasn’t quite right. With a thick Queens accent she asked if everything was okay and I jokingly whispered that yes, except that I was on the worst date in a very long time.

She laughed as she offered, “I’ve been there. I’ll bring you a shot, on the house.” When I returned to my seat, there was a tequila and lime waiting. Without explaining to the terrible date, I took it down in one swift swoop, and I left that heaven-sent waitress a 35 percent tip in return.

After awkwardly leaving my date (without physically running away), I stopped at a place on my block for a drink. It wasn’t even 10:30 at night, and feeling ten years older than what I really was, I decided having an extra pint would satisfy my FOMO. Or at least, drown it. Plus this particular bar attracts a younger crowd that’s not common to the Upper West, and I wasn’t about to waste flawless makeup and a sexy dress on that pitiful example of a date. Maybe at the very least, I thought, I’d flirt with a stranger and feel like the night meant something after all. The only place at the busy bar was smack dab in front of the tab, smushed between two couples and looking over the discarded plates of naked chicken wings and leftovers of spinach and artichoke dip that someone didn’t finish. I took a deep breath and said my P’s and Q’s to sandwich myself in between, and as if I was a regular, I asked for their signature pilsner.

I really did try my best to salvage whatever night I had by looking interested in the game that was on. Or smiling at the very few men that were without women — and without wedding rings — at the establishment. I tried to look away from my phone, even as it lit up with words of encouragement and frowny faces from my friends about my no-good, terrible date. But with a little more than a gulp to go, I grew tired of the woman to my right throwing her hair in my face as she laughed at jokes that weren’t amusing, and the duo to my left who seriously couldn’t keep their eyes or tongues off of one another. I gave the scantily dressed bartender a dollar and headed — okay, hurried — to the sanctuary of my apartment.

And though I write about relationships and I’m generally level-headed and somewhat realistic about the dating scene in this city, the flood of disappointment, of frustration, of total annoyance came over me the second I was finally alone in that elevator, heading up to the 7th floor. I melted onto my bedroom floor, not even taking off my high-wedged heels, not even turning the air conditioner up in a scorching tiny space that’s only bearable because of the low setting I maintain for Lucy while I’m away. She jumped into my lap and cuddled herself around my arms, as she usually does, and with that first warm embrace all night, I let myself cry.

Just a little.

I let myself spiral around the tornado of  what if’s and the waves of jealousy over my friends, who spent their Fridays at concerts and beaches and double- dates and dinners with men that they not only love but men who undeniably love them back. I let myself curse that stupid bus where I met the last stupid guy I cared for, and somehow, I’m stupidly still affected by the aftermath of our breakup. I let myself mull over the fact that it’s been two years since I broke up with that guy, and two years since I’ve given a second-thought to or had butterflies with anyone else. I let myself consider what my life would look like or how it would feel if I was in fact, single and never married, never had  children. I let myself believe that I could muster up the courage to find a way to be happy flying solo, forever.

And then I let myself dream about that gentle, safe harbor that I often imagine when I’m feeling desperate, it’s my happy place where that handsome man, whoever he is, lives with our blue-eyed children in a brick estate with a thick, green lawn, where plastic-y toys, tiny shoes and love are spread about the house. I let myself shed that black cloak of professionalism and realism that I wear in the city that doesn’t value romance or blush-colored ideas about love —  because focusing on bigger, worldly issues is respected much higher than matters of the heart. Or of emotion. I let myself think about the things that a girl my age is far too young to think about when I have so much living, so much life ahead of me. I let myself let go of those fears that being happy in a relationship isn’t possible or that relationship is so far away that I shouldn’t waste time worrying about it now. I let myself believe that my next great love — possibly even the love — is actually much closer than what I predict. I let myself let it all go as I let myself fall apart…

Just a little.

And then I picked myself up off the floor and washed my face. I buried myself in my new white down comforter that I’m brave to buy with a dog. I settled into the stillness of the night, the quiet that’s so rare in Manhattan. I looked outside at the building tops that I’ve grown accustomed to, and I spread myself out in my Queen oasis that I’ve become comfortable sleeping alone in, often in the dead-center of the bed. And though I know better, I decided that tomorrow was another day. And the day after it, another chance. Perhaps the one that follows, another man. And even if I know better than to believe in love after so many signs pointing to never-happily-ever, I’d rather have faith in what I don’t know than in the thoughts that bring me to the harshness of a hardwood floor on a Friday night.

I do know better, but I don’t know enough to give up.

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The Five Year Scam

As part of our final grade my senior year in high school, my English teacher had us write a five-and ten-year plan for how we envisioned our future life. Already quite deep into my love affair for this sparkling city, my cinco-de viva plan (or however you say that in Spanish?) — for 22 — went something like this:

Living in a luxury apartment in the heart of midtown, hustling and bustling with the best of ’em. Working as an editor at a big magazine, going to fancy parties and wearing fancy things, but writing about important topics — other than accessories and blow jobs. Dating a handsome man who would fall magically in love with me and propose at the top of the Empire State building.

What my life actually looked like at 22:

Living in a rundown brownstone that consistently reeked of reefer, sharing a communal bathroom with strangers. In, um, Harlem (but told my parents it was the Upper West Side so they could sleep at night). Working at a small trade business magazine, writing about tax benefits, sales, marketing and entrepreneurial success stories. My paycheck didn’t afford fancy things and my title didn’t offer fancy parties, but I did master the fine art of making Ramen delicacies. I started this blog a day past the big 2-2, and started my tumultuous relationship with Mr Unavailable/Possibility a month later.

Funny how things don’t really go according to plan, right?

As I (gulp) approach my 10 year out of that Southern high school and my (gulp) five year out of college, I find myself thinking about how I once pictured my life and how it really is, and maybe more interesting, how much of what I thought I wanted at this age, I don’t anymore.

I can blame it a little on conforming to the ways of the city that never sleeps, of how it tricks you into seeing endless options for as far as you see skyscrapers radiating in the distance. The city makes you believe in anything you set out to do, anyone you hope to find and any chance you dare to take. It doesn’t swallow you up for giving something a shot, instead it encourages you to take another leap, have another date, spend a little more money, buy that plane ticket, try something new again.

And so I have been.

I’ve been busy learning and soaking up just about as much as I can from my job. I’m coming up with excuses and finding opportunities to travel. I’m signing up for races I’m not convinced I should run, but fully dedicated to trying. I’m dating when it feels right and stopping when it doesn’t. I’m coming and going, quickly and slowly, just as I want, just as the mood strikes, just how it should have always been.

Because five year plans never turn out in the sweet little ways you think they will. Your illusions of how things are supposed to work out are just that, illusions. They are beautiful pictures crafted with the best-intentioned hand, but ripe with ideas of what life looks like, not what it actually feels like. Not what it actually means to live.

Because living doesn’t include plans and it doesn’t go on a pre-determined schedule or a course or events. It doesn’t follow rules and it refuses to make them. It doesn’t fit into a box of certain size or fit itself underneath a sweetly tied bow.

Instead, it surprises you.

Your five and ten year plan seem silly in comparison to your actual existence. What you dreamt for yourself still rhymes in the some sort of way, but those plans feels more like a scam. If everything worked out just as we hoped, just as we mapped it out, we would miss all the fun. All the good stuff. All the anger, the disappointment, the fear, the love, the passion, the struggle, the conquering, the battle, the success, the failure, the romance, the roughness. The shine after it all.

You’d miss the best parts of your 20-something years.

Especially the part where you look back on your life and those choices you made, out of spite, out of intrigue, and you find yourself smiling at the experience. Thankful you didn’t always pick the easiest road, but the one that seemed the best, and maybe the hardest, at the time. You would miss the part where something hits you — probably in the middle of an ordinary day — and you realize that blueprint doesn’t fit you anymore.

And that no plan really does at all. Maybe it never did to begin with.

Because finally, after fighting the should-be’s and the could-be’s and the supposed-to’s and all the pressuring words that did nothing but haunt you, you have found yourself released from the language. You’ve found yourself free from the scam — I mean, the plan — and happily ever after without a clue of what’s next.

And you know — or at the very least, you hope — it’s going to work out in a way that no pencil, no high school paper, no fortune teller, no anyone or anything could have ever predicted.

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Don’t Forget How to Dream

“Wouldn’t it be something if this time next year, we were sitting here with your boyfriend?” My sweet Southern mother said while sipping on Perrier in Central Park on Memorial Day. It’s our tradition — and my Mother’s Day gift — to fly her up for the long holiday for some always-needed girl time.

“It would be nice, but if not, we’ll find something better to do. I’m not waiting around for a man, especially when there is never a guarantee of one coming or even sticking around once he’s here,” I said, stuffing pastrami and cheddar cheese bites into my mouth. “I don’t need to have a boyfriend next year or the year after or whatever. I’m just fine, just single.”

Lucy tilted her head at me like she does when I’m singing loudly in the morning and my mom copied her expression as she replied, “Well yeah, of course you’ll be fine. And happy, I’m sure. But you’re dating because you want to meet someone, not just to kill time, am I right?” Annoyed at her ridiculous ability to be right about everything, I snapped back at her with a long monologue about how I finally found peace with being single and I didn’t want to talk about what might be or what could be or what will be or what I want or what I hope for.

“…if I think about and imagine a relationship, it’ll never live up to my expectations and most dates… well, all dates currently, are just disappointing. And I don’t want to be disappointed anymore, so I have decided to not think about it,” I finished, feeling like I conquered a non-existent argument. My mom took off her sunglasses and rested her hand on my knee and asked:

“When did you stop being such a dreamer, Linds? Did you forget how to dream?”

Though she left a week ago, I find myself asking that same question over and over again, trying to decode just when I stopped entertaining fantasies in my head — and why exactly I deemed them unhealthy. She knows me very well — probably better than anyone else — so it’s not a surprise that she can spend five days in my New York life and instantly decode the weak spots that I try to gloss over. We spent the holiday walking about town, getting caught in the rain, dancing at Irish pubs, singing karaoke and having deep conversations about soul searching and dealing with change as we caught trains throughout this big ‘ol town. And somehow, without trying at all, my mom can see through every facade and great illusion I try to weave, and see exactly what’s wrong.

And well, articulate it in ways I haven’t been able to until now. In the last almost two years, I’ve focused so much on living that I’ve stopped dreaming.

Oddly enough, that was kind of the point of this blog from the get-go: I wanted to learn how to love myself with or without a man, and ultimately, figure out how to live in today instead of worrying so much about tomorrow. But somewhere along this passage to single-and-lovin’-it, I lost track of the lady who loved to dream. She may not be too far away — if you look at my current bedroom walls, you’ll see a map circled with places I want to go, photographs bought at pop-up street fairs of couples happily in love, clip-outs of homes and apartments that are so expensive I lose track of the zeroes, and quotes that continually lift me up when I feel myself slipping away.

But when it comes to talking about the love I haven’t felt yet or the man I haven’t met or the post-Mr. Possibility relationship I’ve yet to have, I’ve been trying so hard to be so strong about it all, that I haven’t let myself believe — even for a second — that maybe, love is actually on the way. Actually someday soon, even.

Instead, I’ve been protecting my heart and well, my mind from failure. From getting my hopes up so high that they have no place to go but crashing down. From getting excited about a third date because in this city, it usually means nothing. From thinking — and beautifully, wishfully dreaming about the life I hope to have ten years from now.

Or even one year from now.

Today, as I cleaned out my bookshelf, I stumbled across a postcard from an old friend that read: “Take time to dream.” Unable to wrap my head around the coincidence, I sat down on the floor, in the middle of the pile of books and papers and just cried.

It wasn’t out of desperation or longing. It wasn’t even out of sadness. I cried for the younger, the less street smart, the less experienced me that used to doodle about things she wanted. The me that cut pictures out of magazines because one day I’d work for one and one day I’d have everything that I read about on those pages.

And maybe that’s why I’m a little scared to dream now. I do have most of what I ever wanted: an incredible job that’s challenging and entertaining. A safe, comfortable place to live in the city that’s always held my heart. A group of dynamic and funny friends that keep me sane, regardless if they’re a subway stop or a plane ride away. A sweet puppy who never lets me end my day upset or feeilng unloved. A healthy body that looks great in red.

So the thing left to dream about is… love.

Or about the ways my career will change and grow over the next few years. Or about the NYC addresses that I’ll write on envelopes but haven’t walked past yet. Or the people who will change my life that I haven’t met. Or the races I’ll run or the stamps I’ll have on my passport.

Or maybe — if I really dare myself to dream — perhaps, I’ll live with a tall, handsome, successful and kind husband in a great Upper West Side apartment, be a best-selling novelist who is able to travel and able to remind herself that it’s only with imagining that anything can ever happen.

I’ve always dreamed about many impossible things, and many of those so-called silly ideas have come true. So why should I forget how to dream now? How can I forget to dream when my dreams have always been the start of everything that’s ever meant anything to me?

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You’d Figure It Out

What if you find yourself 40 years old, single, living alone in a tiny apartment in the West Village?

What if you search high and low, put up with the jerks, the gems — and everything wild and beautiful in between — and somehow, the man of your dreams, is just that? A dream? What if he really is just a figment of your imagination? What if you don’t actually ever cross that finish line to the altar and you spend years waiting for your chance to sprint? What if you watch everyone around you pair up, pair apart and pair up again, while you idly wait for your turn to take a chance? To make a loving mistake you’ll one day cherish? What if you never, ever fall in love again? What if you were meant to only get a taste, not a glass? What if you become one of those women that for whatever reason, don’t end up with a soulmate, or maybe never had one to begin with? What if you aren’t meant for that one, huge, great, amazing big love after all?

You’d figure out how to love yourself even more.

What if you do happen to meet someone kind of amazing? But he doesn’t fit that description that MASH spelled out for you, or the background or the paycheck or the height that you’d hoped for?

What if you meet him and don’t instantly know in that all-telling, fortuitous gut of yours that you were meant to be? What if you don’t meet in a way that’s fun or encouraging to tell your grandchildren? What if it takes more time than you’d like for him to come along? What if it takes even longer for you to get over yourself enough to let yourself love him in return? What if he’s bald? Or divorced? What if he doesn’t have that body that really gets you going, but instead has a heart that lets you finally rest? What if he is perfect for you in every way and though you don’t doubt he’s the one, you find yourself anxious about settling down? What if you aren’t completely sure, even if you actually, kind of are?

You’d figure out how to fall in love with the man, not the idea.

What if that dream job, the one with the fancy corner office, the shiny gold name plate, the cushy salary and the pretty life that comes with it… isn’t an option?

What if everything you’ve always known about yourself and what you’re good at and what brings you happiness, one day, doesn’t anymore? What if those bylines stop meaning as much or they mean so much that the pressure all becomes too heavy to carry? Too difficult to run toward, so you stop? What if you never publish a book, never open a bakery, never have more than enough money, and yet, just enough? What if you don’t get the chance to lead something or someone or some place and spend your life being led by other people? What if all that time spent editing your resume and surviving on next-to-nothing with a side of Ramen doesn’t actually pay off in the end? What if you don’t hear those precious two words — You’re hired! — that sometimes feel more important than the infamous three words? What if you don’t find what you’re looking for, after all?

You’d figure out how to let go of the path you paved so you can be brave enough to lay out a new one.

What if you never fit back into those size two jeans that you did sophomore year of college?

What if you never experience what it’s like to prance the beach in a bikini, fully confident, fully mesmerized by how you great you look? What if your boobs are never big enough, your skin never clear enough, your teeth never white enough, your hair never straight enough, your stomach never flat enough? What if you don’t drop the baby weight right away — or all of it? What if you can never actually run that marathon or even qualify for it? What if you don’t ever get that smokin’ hot bod that you want (and sweat to earn)?

You’d figure out how to feel comfortable and yes, radiate in the beautiful parts that make you gorgeously imperfect.

What if your five year plan takes eight years to complete — or never happens at all?

What if you are set off course by a bump here and a stumble there, keeping you always within arm’s reach of what you want, but never close enough to actually touch? What if you find yourself continuously surprised and effortlessly amused by the decisions you make and ones that are made for you? What if you end up far from where you came from and yet, closer to your heart than you’ve ever been before? What if nothing goes according to the map you mapped out with such care? What if you find yourself so happy with the life you created, even if it’s not carved out just as you thought it would be, but somehow, it’s better?

What if your future is so unpredictable — as amazing things often are — that you can’t figure it out before you get there? Whatever it is, you know you’ll be able to take it as it comes, solve the rhymes and the puzzles as they happen and tangle themselves up into your pretty little pictures of idealism. Because the truth is —  you don’t always get the guy. You don’t always have an incredible marriage. You don’t always get the storybook tale you want to tell. The awesome career comes with sacrifices you might not want to make. You’re always going to get a zit at a bad time. You will probably change your mind one hundred times about what you want and what feels right. You can pick lovers over babies, and babies over freedom. You can try until trying is doing, and do it until you have to try again. There are no guarantees and no way to plan it out. There are no right answers and no way to reassure yourself that it’ll all work out.

No way to actually figure it out with complete certainty.

But what ever life throws at you — or doesn’t — you can figure out how to make it work. How to be happy. And one day, it won’t feel like you’re figuring anything out — it’ll just feel like it’s happening how it was supposed to all along.

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Finding My Way Back to Me

Wrapped up in the warmth of moment you know doesn’t come around very often, I closed my eyes and listened to the gentle crashing of the waves.

My best friend was breathing deeply next to me, slowly falling into the slumber the comes so easy when you’ve spent the day absorbing the sun and the fun of a place that’s not your home and relishing in the whirlwind of a few days that came and went faster than either of us thought they would. I felt the sand blow up against my sunburnt calves and the subtle spray of the ocean barely touching my skin, and I exhaled the biggest breath I have in what feels like forever.

I opened my eyes and tried to count the seemingly endless stars above me – their tapestry fascinating me and reminding me of the Southern upbringing I’m continuously thankful for. Their flicker and gaze didn’t remind me of the city I love – in fact, I hadn’t missed much about New York in the last five days. My Mexican oasis with my dearest friend in Manhattan had arrived at the most serendipitous time and more than anything else, it got me away from the constant rush and pressure of a life that yes, I created, but also, I was exhausted of. As difficult as it is to look out from underneath my rose-colored glasses and to unravel the picturesque story I’ve depicted of my grand escape from North Carolina to find success in the Big Apple – the reality of my life isn’t always so, well, peachy.

Over the last few months, I’ve not only grown frustrated and tired, wondering – and worrying – that my day-to-day would always be unfulfilling and unoriginal. Taking the same subway to the same place and back to the same apartment, walking a pup for probably the thousandth time, going on yet another boring date that might result in a kiss I’ll be sorry I wasted lipstick on. While I’m one of the rare breeds who does enjoy the challenge and stress of my job – when last Thursday rolled around and M and I’s flight to Mexico was about to take flight – I took great pleasure in turning off my Blackberry.

But, laying there in that cabana bed at 9 at night, equally exhausted and entirely at ease, full of food that wasn’t great and drinks that were, I didn’t concentrate on those negative thoughts I have let consume my focus lately. I didn’t think about the mess of my apartment or my mind. Or my heart. I didn’t think about turning 25 in September and the fear that another two years will come and go without another love to call my own since Mr. P. I didn’t think of him either. I didn’t think of my lack of savings or idea of my next steps or my next changes or my next choices. I didn’t think of my constant need to boost my own confidence and stop comparing myself to other ladies. I didn’t think about being good enough or pretty enough or thin enough or smart enough or resilient enough – or anything enough.

Instead, I felt my eyes well up with tears with so much thanks for everything I’ve been taking for granted.

For every last blessing I haven’t been counting, for every wish that I once had that has actually, truly and sometimes incredibly, has come true. For the best friends, like M, who remind me of the beauty in everything, and especially in patience. For the paychecks that make living in New York possible from a job – a career – that supports and encourages me. For the love of a little dog that keeps me warm at night and smiling on the street at 7 a.m., without makeup, without any care at all. For the love I’ve been lucky to experience — even if it has washed away like the tide in front of me, I do know that the tide always comes back. For the apartment that keeps me cool when it’s hot, warm when it’s not, and the friendly folks who make me cleaner than I really am. For this blog that lets me express everything I can never verbalize in any manner that makes sense. For the family who may be very far away, but never that far from my heart.

For this five-day escape that made me realize how much I needed to get away from the city…. and also from myself.

This vacation was what I needed, even if I didn’t expect it to be as luxurious or wonderful as it turned out to be. I had not only needed the company of someone who knows me, who forgives me, who reminds me to relax (and take more tequila shots) – but I had needed to let go of it all. I needed those waves – and those margaritas – to wash away my funk. To cleanse me of my selfish attitude, of my bitter thoughts, of my fears that have no place in the back or the front of my mind. I had needed the sun to warm my heart up again – to remind it of what it feels like to be free and though imperfect (and maybe a little scarred), still vibrant, still full of the love that makes me…. me. I had needed space to recognize the gifts I’ve been given, the people who make me whole, the hope that makes me feel alive.

And underneath that moonlight, talking about nothing at all, I felt that hope come back to me. I felt my faith rekindle and my soul bubble with happiness. As we walked away to our beautiful home-away-from-home (complete with an outdoor shower and Jacuzzi!), I said a little prayer to remember this tiny piece of time. To remember the release I can give myself, to remember how to let go of the bad and feel the good again. To remember to breathe.

Because even though vacations (sadly) can’t last forever and like all important things, moments pass and change, just like friendships, just like your hopes and dreams, just like the best (and strongest) of loves – if you’re able to let yourself learn and let go, then you’re able to do anything. If you’re able to find gratitude in everything and anything, then you can always be under that cascading drapery of stars, you can always hear the calm and sudden rush of the ocean, you can always feel the sun on your back, you can always feel the comfort of the people you love near you.

You can always find your way back to yourself, even if you’ve been missing for a long time.